about crush his head, he sprang again to his feet. He grasped a handful
of small stones and hurled them.
"Damn you," he shrieked loudly. The pebbles rang against the face of the
mountain.
The little man then made an attack. He climbed with hands and feet
wildly. Brambles forced him back and stones slid from beneath his feet.
The peak swayed and tottered, and was ever about to smite with a granite
arm. The summit was a blaze of red wrath.
But the little man at last reached the top. Immediately he swaggered
with valour to the edge of the cliff. His hands were scornfully in his
pockets.
He gazed at the western horizon, edged sharply against a yellow sky.
"Ho!" he said. "There's Boyd's house and the Lumberland Pike."
The mountain under his feet was motionless.
MISCELLANEOUS
THE SQUIRE'S MADNESS.
Linton was in his study remote from the interference of domestic sounds.
He was writing verses. He was not a poet in the strict sense of the
word, because he had eight hundred a year and a manor-house in Sussex.
But he was devoted, at any rate, and no happiness was for him equal to
the happiness of an imprisonment in this lonely study. His place had
been a semi-fortified house in the good days when every gentleman was
either abroad with a bared sword hunting his neighbours or behind
oak-and-iron doors and three-feet walls while his neighbours hunted him.
But in the life of Linton it may be said that the only part of the house
which remained true to the idea of fortification was the study, which
was free only to Linton's wife and certain terriers. The necessary
appearance from time to time of a servant always grated upon Linton as
much as if from time to time somebody had in the most well-bred way
flung a brick through the little panes of his window.
This window looked forth upon a wide valley of hop-fields and
sheep-pastures, dipping and rising this way and that way, but always a
valley until it reached a high far away ridge upon which stood the
upright figure of a windmill, usually making rapid gestures as if it
were an excited sentry warning the old grey house of coming danger. A
little to the right, on a knoll, red chimneys and parts of red-tiled
roofs appeared among trees, and the venerable square tower of the
village church rose above them.
For ten years Linton had left vacant Oldrestham Hall, and when at last
it became known that he and his wife were to return from an
incomprehensible wandering, the village, which for four centuries had
turned a feudal eye toward the Hall, was wrung with a prospect of
change, a proper change. The great family pew in Oldrestham church would
be occupied each Sunday morning by a fat, happy-faced, utterly
squire-looking man, who would be dutifully at his post when the parish
was stirred by a subscription list. Then, for the first time in many
years, the hunters would ride in the early morning merrily out through
the park, and there would be also shooting parties, and in the summer
groups of charming ladies would be seen walking the terrace, laughing on
the lawns and in the rose gardens. The village expected to have the
perfectly legal and fascinating privilege of discussing the performances
of its own gentry.
The first intimation of calamity was in the news that Linton had rented
all the shooting. This prepared the people for the blow, and it fell
when they sighted the master of Oldrestham Hall. The older villagers
remembered then that there had been nothing in the youthful Linton to
promise a fat, happy-faced, dignified, hunting, shooting over-lord, but
still they could not but resent the appearance of the new squire. There
was no conceivable reason for his looking like a gaunt ascetic, who
would surprise nobody if he borrowed a sixpence from the first yokel he
met in the lanes.
Linton was in truth three inches more than six feet in height, but he
had bowed himself to five feet eleven inches. His hair shocked out in
front like hay, and under it were two spectacled eyes which never seemed
to regard anything with particular attention. His face was pale and full
of hollows, and the mouth apparently had no expression save a chronic
pout of the under-lip. His hands were large and raw boned but uncannily
white. His whole bent body was thin as that of a man from a long
sick-bed, and all was finished by two feet which for size could not be
matched in the county.
He was very awkward, but apparently it was not so much a physical
characteristic as it was a mental inability to consider where he was
going or what he was doing. For instance, when passing through a gate it
was not uncommon for him to knock his side viciously against one of the
posts. This was because he dreamed almost always, and if there had been
forty gates in a row he would not then have noted them more than he did
the one. As far as the villagers and farmers were concerned he never
came out of this manner save in wide-apart cases, when he had forced
upon him either some great exhibition of stupidity or some faint
indication of double-dealing, and then this smouldering man flared out
encrimsoning his immediate surrounding with a brief fire of ancestral
anger. But the lapse back to indifference was more surprising. It was
far quicker than the flare in the beginning. His feeling was suddenly
ashes at the moment when one was certain it would lick the sky.
Some of the villagers asserted that he was mad. They argued it long in
the manner of their kind, repeating, repeating, and repeating, and when
an opinion confusingly rational appeared they merely shook their heads
in pig-like obstinacy. Anyhow, it was historically clear that no such
squire had before been in the line of Lintons of Oldrestham Hall, and
the present incumbent was a shock.
The servants at the Hall--notably those who lived in the
country-side--came in for a lot of questioning, and none were found too
backward in explaining many things which they themselves did not
understand. The household was most irregular. They all confessed that it
was really so uncustomary that they did not know but what they would
have to give notice. The master was probably the most extraordinary man
in the whole world. The butler said that Linton would drink beer with
his meals day in and day out like any carrier resting at a pot-house. It
didn't matter even if the meal were dinner. Then suddenly he would
change his tastes to the most valuable wines, and in ten days would make
the wine-cellar look as if it had been wrecked at sea. What was to be
done with a gentleman of that kind? The butler said for his part he
wanted a master with habits, and he protested that Linton did not have a
habit to his name, at least, none that could properly be called a habit.
Barring the cook, the entire establishment agreed categorically with the
butler. The cook didn't agree because she was a very good cook indeed,
which she thought entitled her to be extremely aloof from the other
servants' hall opinions.
As for the squire's lady, they described her as being not much different
from the master. At least she gave support to his most unusual manner of
life, and evidently believed that whatever he chose to do was quite
correct.
Linton had written--
"The garlands of her hair are snakes,
Black and bitter are her hating eyes,
A cry the windy death-hall makes,
O, love, deliver us.
The flung cup rolls to her sandal's tip,
His arm--"
Whereupon his thought fumed over the next two lines, coursing like
greyhounds, after a fugitive vision of a writhening lover with the foam
of poison on his lips dying at the feet of the woman. Linton arose, lit
a cigarette, placed it on the window ledge, took another cigarette,
looked blindly for the matches, thrust a spiral of paper into the flame
of the log fire, lit the second cigarette, placed it toppling on a book
and began a search among his pipes for one that would draw well. He
gazed at his pictures, at the books on the shelves, out at the green
spread of country-side, all without taking mental note. At the window
ledge he came upon the first cigarette, and in a matter of fact way he
returned it to his lips, having forgotten that he had forgotten it.
There was a sound of steps on the stone floor of the quaint little
passage that led down to his study, and turning from the window he saw
that his wife had entered the room and was looking at him strangely.
"Jack," she said in a low voice, "what is the matter?"
His eyes were burning out from under his shock of hair with a fierceness
that belied his feeling of simple surprise. "Nothing is the matter," he
answered. "Why do you ask?"
She seemed immensely concerned, but she was visibly endeavouring to
hide her concern as well as to abate it.
"I--I thought you acted queerly."
He answered: "Why no. I'm not acting queerly. On the contrary," he added
smiling, "I'm in one of my most rational moods."
Her look of alarm did not subside. She continued to regard him with the
same stare. She was silent for a time and did not move. His own thoughts
had quite returned to a contemplation of a poisoned lover, and he did
not note the manner of his wife. Suddenly she came to him, and laying a
hand on his arm said, "Jack, you are ill?"
"Why no, dear," he said with a first impatience, "I'm not ill at all. I
never felt better in my life." And his mind beleaguered by this
pointless talk strove to break through to its old contemplation of the
poisoned lover. "Hear what I have written." Then he read--
"The garlands of her hair are snakes,
Black and bitter are her hating eyes,
A cry the windy death-hall makes,
O, love, deliver us.
The flung cup rolls to her sandal's tip,
His arm--"
Linton said: "I can't seem to get the lines to describe the man who is
dying of the poison on the floor before her. Really I'm having a time
with it. What a bore. Sometimes I can write like mad and other times I
don't seem to have an intelligent idea in my head."
He felt his wife's hand tighten on his arm and he looked into her face.
It was so alight with horror that it brought him sharply out of his
dreams. "Jack," she repeated tremulously, "you are ill."
He opened his eyes in wonder. "Ill! ill? No; not in the least!"
"Yes, you are ill. I can see it in your eyes. You--act so strangely."
"Act strangely? Why, my dear, what have I done? I feel quite well.
Indeed, I was never more fit in my life."
As he spoke he threw himself into a large wing chair and looked up at
his wife, who stood gazing at him from the other side of the black oak
table upon which Linton wrote his verses.
"Jack, dear," she almost whispered, "I have noticed it for days," and
she leaned across the table to look more intently into his face. "Yes,
your eyes grow more fixed every day--you--you--your head, does it ache,
dear?"
Linton arose from his chair and came around the big table toward his
wife. As he approached her, an expression akin to terror crossed her
face and she drew back as in fear, holding out both hands to ward him
off.
He had been smiling in the manner of a man reassuring a frightened
child, but at her shrinking from his outstretched hand he stopped in
amazement. "Why, Grace, what is it? tell me."
She was glaring at him, her eyes wide with misery. Linton moved his left
hand across his face, unconsciously trying to brush from it that which
alarmed her.
"Oh, Jack, you must see some one; I am wretched about you. You are ill!"
"Why, my dear wife," he said, "I am quite, quite well; I am anxious to
finish these verses but words won't come somehow, the man dying--"
"Yes, that is it, you cannot remember, you see that you cannot remember.
You must see a doctor. We will go up to town at once," she answered
quickly.
"'Tis true," he thought, "that my memory is not as good as it used to
be. I cannot remember dates, and words won't fit in somehow. Perhaps I
don't take enough exercise, dear; is that what worries you?" he asked.
"Yes, yes, dear, you do not go out enough," said his wife. "You cling to
this room as the ivy clings to the walls--but we must go to London, you
_must_ see some one; promise me that you will go, that you will go
immediately."
Again Linton saw his wife look at him as one looks at a creature of
pity. The faint lines from her nose to the corners of her mouth
deepened as if she were in physical pain; her eyes, open to their
fullest extent, had in them the expression of a mother watching her
dying babe. What was this strange wall that had suddenly raised itself
between them? Was he ill? No; he never was in better health in his life.
He found himself vainly searching for aches in his bones. Again he
brushed away this thing which seemed to be upon his face. There must be
something on my face, he thought, else why does she look at me with such
hopeless despair in her eyes; these kindly eyes that had hitherto been
so responsive to each glance of his own. _Why_ did she think that he was
ill? She who knew well his every mood. _Was he mad?_ Did this thing of
the poisoned cup that rolled to her sandal's tip--and her eyes, her
hating eyes, mean that his--no, it could not be. He fumbled among the
papers on the table for a cigarette. He could not find one. He walked to
the huge fireplace and peered near-sightedly at the ashes on the hearth.
"What, what do you want, Jack? Be careful! The fire!" cried his wife.
"Why, I want a cigarette," he said.
She started, as if he had spoken roughly to her. "I will get you some,
wait, sit quietly, I will bring you some," she replied as she hastened
through the small passage-way up the stone steps that led from his
study.
Linton stood with his back still bent, in the posture of a man picking
something from the ground. He did not turn from the fireplace until the
echo of his wife's foot-fall on the stone floors had died away. Then he
straightened himself and said, "Well, I'm damned!" And Linton was not a
man who swore.
* * * * *
A month later the Squire and his wife were on their way to London to
consult the great brain specialist, Doctor Redmond. Linton now believed
that "something" was wrong with him. His wife's anxiety, which she could
no longer conceal, forced him to this conclusion; "something" was wrong.
Until these few last weeks Linton's wife had managed her household with
the care and wisdom of a Chatelaine of mediaeval times. Each day was
planned for certain duties in house or village. She had theories as to
the management and education of the village children, and this work
occupied much of her time. She was the antithesis of her husband. He, a
weaver of dream-stories, she of that type of woman who has ideas of the
emancipation of women and who believe the problem could be solved by
training the minds of the next generation of mothers. Linton was not
interested in these questions, but he would smile indulgently at his
wife as she talked of the equality of mind of the sexes and the public
part in the world's history which would be played by the women of the
future.
There was no talk of this kind now. The household management fell into
the hands of servants. Night and day his wife watched Linton. He would
awaken in the night to find her face close to his own, her eyes burning
with feverish anxiety.
"What is it, Grace?" he would cry, "have I said anything? What is the
reason you watch me in this fashion, dear?"
And she would sob, "Jack, you are ill, dear, you are ill; we must go to
town, we must, indeed."
Then he would soothe her with fond words and promise that he would go to
London.
This present journey was the outcome of those weeks of watching and fear
in Linton's wife's mind.
* * * * *
Linton's wife was trembling violently as he helped her down from the cab
in front of Doctor Redmond's door. They had made an appointment, so that
they were sure of little delay before the portentous interview.
A small page in blue livery opened the door and ushered them into a
waiting-room. Mrs. Linton dropped heavily into a chair, looking with a
frightened air from side to side and biting her under lip nervously.
She was moaning half under her breath, "Oh, Jack, you are ill, you are
ill."
A short stout man with clean-shaven face and scanty black hair entered
the room. His nose was huge and misshapen and his mouth was a straight
firm line. Overhanging black brows tried in vain to shadow the piercing
dark eyes, that darted questioning looks at every one, seeming to search
for hidden thoughts as a flash-light from the conning tower of a ship
searches for the enemy in time of war.
He advanced toward Mrs. Linton with outstretched hand. "Mrs. Linton?" he
said. "Ah!"
She almost jumped from her chair as he came near her, crying, "Oh,
doctor, my husband is ill, very ill, very ill!"
Again Doctor Redmond with his eyes fixed upon her face ejaculated, "Ah!"
Turning to Linton he said, "Please wait here, Squire; I will first talk
to your wife. Will you step into my study, madam?" he said to Mrs.
Linton, bowing courteously.
Linton's wife ran into the room which the doctor pointed toward as his
study.
Linton waited. He moved softly about the room looking at the photographs
of Greek ruins which adorned the walls. He stopped finally before a
large picture of the Gate of Hadrian. He travelled once more into his
dream country. His fancy painted in the figures of men and women who had
passed through that gate. He had forgotten his fear of the blotting out
of his mind that could conjure these glowing colours. He had forgotten
himself.
From this dream he was recalled to the present by a hand being placed
gently upon his arm. He half turned and saw the doctor regarding him
with sympathetic eyes.
"Come, my dear sir, come into my study," said the doctor. "I have asked
your wife to await us here." Linton then turned fully toward the centre
of the room and found that his wife was seated quietly by a table.
Doctor Redmond bowed low to Mrs. Linton as he passed her, and Linton
waved his hand, smiled, and said, "Only a moment, dear." She did not
reply. The door closed behind them.
"Be seated, my dear sir," said the doctor, drawing forward a chair, "be
seated. I want to say something to you, but you must drink this first."
He handed Linton a small glass of brandy.
Linton sat down, took the glass mechanically, and gulped the brandy in
one great swallow. The doctor stood by the mantel and said slowly, "I
rejoice to say to you, sir, that I have never met a man more sound
mentally than yourself"--
Linton half started from his chair.
"Stop!" said the doctor, "I have not yet finished--but it is my painful
duty to tell you the truth--It is your WIFE WHO IS MAD! MAD AS A
HATTER!"
A DESERTION.
The yellow gas-light that came with an effect of difficulty through the
dust-stained windows on either side of the door, gave strange hues to
the faces and forms of the three women who stood gabbling in the
hall-way of the tenement. They made rapid gestures, and in the
background their enormous shadows mingled in terrific conflict.
"Aye, she ain't so good as he thinks she is, I'll bet. He can watch over
'er an' take care of 'er all he pleases, but when she wants t' fool 'im,
she'll fool 'im. An' how does he know she ain't foolin' 'im now?"
"Oh, he thinks he's keepin' 'er from goin' t' th' bad, he does. Oh, yes.
He ses she's too purty t' let run round alone. Too purty! Huh! My
Sadie--"
"Well, he keeps a clost watch on 'er, you bet. O'ny las' week, she met
my boy Tim on th' stairs, an' Tim hadn't said two words to 'er b'fore
th' ol' man begin to holler. 'Dorter, dorter, come here, come here!'"
At this moment a young girl entered from the street, and it was evident
from the injured expression suddenly assumed by the three gossipers that
she had been the object of their discussion. She passed them with a
slight nod, and they swung about into a row to stare after her.
On her way up the long flights the girl unfastened her veil. One could
then clearly see the beauty of her eyes, but there was in them a certain
furtiveness that came near to marring the effects. It was a peculiar
fixture of gaze, brought from the street, as of one who there saw a
succession of passing dangers with menaces aligned at every corner.
On the top floor, she pushed open a door and then paused on the
threshold, confronting an interior that appeared black and flat like a
curtain. Perhaps some girlish idea of hobgoblins assailed her then, for
she called in a little breathless voice, "Daddie!"
There was no reply. The fire in the cooking-stove in the room crackled
at spasmodic intervals. One lid was misplaced, and the girl could now
see that this fact created a little flushed crescent upon the ceiling.
Also, a series of tiny windows in the stove caused patches of red upon
the floor. Otherwise, the room was heavily draped with shadows.
The girl called again, "Daddie!"
Yet there was no reply.
"Oh, Daddie!"
Presently she laughed as one familiar with the humours of an old man.
"Oh, I guess yer cussin' mad about yer supper, dad," she said, and she
almost entered the room, but suddenly faltered, overcome by a feminine
instinct to fly from this black interior, peopled with imagined dangers.
Again she called, "Daddie!" Her voice had an accent of appeal. It was as
if she knew she was foolish but yet felt obliged to insist upon being
reassured. "Oh, daddie!"
Of a sudden a cry of relief, a feminine announcement that the stars
still hung, burst from her. For, according to some mystic process, the
smouldering coals of the fire went aflame with sudden, fierce
brilliance, splashing parts of the walls, the floor, the crude
furniture, with a hue of blood-red. And in the light of this dramatic
outburst of light, the girl saw her father seated at a table with his
back turned toward her.
She entered the room, then, with an aggrieved air, her logic evidently
concluding that somebody was to blame for her nervous fright. "Oh, yer
on'y sulkin' 'bout yer supper. I thought mebbe ye'd gone somewheres."
Her father made no reply. She went over to a shelf in the corner, and,
taking a little lamp, she lit it and put it where it would give her
light as she took off her hat and jacket in front of the tiny mirror.
Presently, she began to bustle among the cooking utensils that were
crowded into the sink, and as she worked she rattled talk at her father,
apparently disdaining his mood.
"I'd 'a come home earlier t'night, dad, o'ny that fly foreman, he kep'
me in th' shop 'til half-past six. What a fool. He came t' me, yeh know,
an' he ses, 'Nell, I wanta give yeh some brotherly advice.' Oh, I know
him an' his brotherly advice. 'I wanta give yeh some brotherly advice.
Yer too purty, Nell,' he ses, 't' be workin' in this shop an' paradin'
through the streets alone, without somebody t' give yeh good brotherly
advice, an' I wanta warn yeh, Nell. I'm a bad man, but I ain't as bad as
some, an' I wanta warn yeh.' 'Oh, g'long 'bout yer business,' I ses. I
know 'im. He's like all of 'em, o'ny he's a little slyer. I know 'im.
'You g'long 'bout yer business,' I ses. Well, he ses after a while that
he guessed some evenin' he'd come up an' see me. 'Oh, yeh will,' I ses,
'yeh will? Well, you jest let my ol' man ketch yeh comin' foolin' 'round
our place. Yeh'll wish yeh went t' some other girl t' give brotherly
advice.' 'What th' 'ell do I care fer yer father?' he ses. 'What's he t'
me?' 'If he throws yeh down stairs, yeh'll care for 'im,' I ses. 'Well,'
he ses, 'I'll come when 'e ain't in, b' Gawd, I'll come when 'e ain't
in.' 'Oh, he's allus in when it means takin' care 'a me,' I ses. 'Don't
yeh fergit it either. When it comes t' takin' care 'a his dorter, he's
right on deck every single possible time.'"
After a time, she turned and addressed cheery words to the old man.
"Hurry up th' fire, daddie! We'll have supper pretty soon."
But still her father was silent, and his form in its sullen posture was
motionless.
At this, the girl seemed to see the need of the inauguration of a
feminine war against a man out of temper. She approached him breathing
soft, coaxing syllables.
"Daddie! Oh, Daddie! O--o--oh, Daddie!"
It was apparent from a subtle quality of valour in her tones that this
manner of onslaught upon his moods had usually been successful, but
to-night it had no quick effect. The words, coming from her lips, were
like the refrain of an old ballad, but the man remained stolid.
"Daddie! My Daddie! Oh, Daddie are yeh mad at me, really--truly mad at
me!"
She touched him lightly upon the arm. Should he have turned then he
would have seen the fresh, laughing face, with dew-sparkling eyes, close
to his own.
"Oh, Daddie! My Daddie! Pretty Daddie!"
She stole her arm about his neck, and then slowly bended her face toward
his. It was the action of a queen who knows that she reigns
notwithstanding irritations, trials, tempests.
But suddenly, from this position, she leaped backward with the mad
energy of a frightened colt. Her face was in this instant turned to a
grey, featureless thing of horror. A yell, wild and hoarse as a
brute-cry, burst from her. "Daddie!" She flung herself to a place near
the door, where she remained, crouching, her eyes staring at the
motionless figure, spattered by the quivering flashes from the fire. Her
arms extended, and her frantic fingers at once besought and repelled.
There was in them an expression of eagerness to caress and an expression
of the most intense loathing. And the girl's hair that had been a
splendour, was in these moments changed to a disordered mass that hung
and swayed in witchlike fashion.
Again, a terrible cry burst from her. It was more than the shriek of
agony--it was directed, personal, addressed to him in the chair, the
first word of a tragic conversation with the dead.
It seemed that when she had put her arm about its neck, she had jostled
the corpse in such a way, that now she and it were face to face. The
attitude expressed an intention of arising from the table. The eyes,
fixed upon hers, were filled with an unspeakable hatred.
* * * * *
The cries of the girl aroused thunders in the tenement. There was a loud
slamming of doors, and presently there was a roar of feet upon the
boards of the stairway. Voices rang out sharply.
"What is it?"
"What's th' matter?"
"He's killin' her!"
"Slug 'im with anythin' yeh kin lay hold of, Jack."
But over all this came the shrill shrewish tones of a woman. "Ah, th'
damned ol' fool, he's drivin' 'er inteh th' street--that's what he's
doin.' He's drivin' 'er inteh th' street."
HOW THE DONKEY LIFTED THE HILLS.
Many people suppose that the donkey is lazy. This is a great mistake. It
is his pride.
Years ago, there was nobody quite so fine as the donkey. He was a great
swell in those times. No one could express an opinion of anything
without the donkey showing where he was in it. No one could mention the
name of an important personage without the donkey declaring how well he
knew him.
The donkey was, above all things, a proud and aristocratic beast.
One day a party of animals were discussing one thing and another, until
finally the conversation drifted around to mythology.
"I have always admired that giant, Atlas," observed the ox in the course
of the conversation. "It was amazing how he could carry things."
"Oh, yes, Atlas," said the donkey, "I knew him very well. I once met a
man and we got talking of Atlas. I expressed my admiration for the giant
and my desire to meet him some day, if possible. Whereupon the man said
there was nothing quite so easy. He was sure that his dear friend,
Atlas, would be happy to meet so charming a donkey. Was I at leisure
next Monday? Well, then, could I dine with him upon that date? So, you
see, it was all arranged. I found Atlas to be a very pleasant fellow."
"It has always been a wonder to me how he could have carried the earth
on his back," said the horse.
"Oh, my dear sir, nothing is more simple," cried the donkey. "One has
only to make up one's mind to it, and then--do it. That is all. I am
quite sure that if I wished I could carry a range of mountains upon my
back."
All the others said, "Oh, my!"
"Yes, I could," asserted the donkey, stoutly. "It is merely a question
of making up one's mind. I will bet."
"I will wager also," said the horse. "I will wager my ears that you
can't carry a range of mountains upon your back."
"Done," cried the donkey.
Forthwith the party of animals set out for the mountains. Suddenly,
however, the donkey paused and said, "Oh, but look here. Who will place
this range of mountains upon my back? Surely I can not be expected to do
the loading also."
Here was a great question. The party consulted. At length the ox said,
"We will have to ask some men to shovel the mountain upon the donkey's
back."
Most of the others clapped their hoofs or their paws and cried, "Ah,
that is the thing."
The horse, however, shook his head doubtfully. "I don't know about these
men. They are very sly. They will introduce some deviltry into the
affair."
"Why, how silly," said the donkey. "Apparently you do not understand
men. They are the most gentle, guileless creatures."
"Well," retorted the horse, "I will doubtless be able to escape since I
am not to be encumbered with any mountains. Proceed."
The donkey smiled in derision at these observations by the horse.
Presently they came upon some men who were labouring away like mad,
digging ditches, felling trees, gathering fruits, carrying water,
building huts.
"Look at these men, would you," said the horse. "Can you trust them
after this exhibition of their depravity? See how each one selfishly--"
The donkey interrupted with a loud laugh.
"What nonsense!"
And then he cried out to the men, "Ho, my friends, will you please come
and shovel a range of mountains upon my back?"
"What?"
"Will you please come and shovel a range of mountains upon my back?"
The men were silent for a time. Then they went apart and debated. They
gesticulated a great deal.
Some apparently said one thing and some another. At last they paused and
one of their number came forward.
"Why do you wish a range of mountains shovelled upon your back?"
"It is a wager," cried the donkey.
The men consulted again. And as the discussion became older, their heads
went closer and closer together, until they merely whispered, and did
not gesticulate at all. Ultimately they cried, "Yes, certainly we will
shovel a range of mountains upon your back for you."
"Ah, thanks," said the donkey.
"Here is surely some deviltry," said the horse behind his hoof to the
ox.
The entire party proceeded then to the mountains. The donkey drew a long
breath and braced his legs.
"Are you ready?" asked the men.
"All ready," cried the donkey.
The men began to shovel.
The dirt and stones flew over the donkey's back in showers. It was not
long before his legs were hidden. Presently only his neck and head
remained in view. Then at last this wise donkey vanished. There had
been made no great effect upon the range of mountains. They still
towered toward the sky.
The watching crowd saw a heap of dirt and stones make a little movement
and then was heard a muffled cry. "Enough! Enough! It was not two ranges
of mountains! It is not fair! It is not fair!"
But the men only laughed as they shovelled on.
"Enough! Enough! Oh, woe is me--thirty snow-capped peaks upon my little
back. Ah, these false, false men! Oh, virtuous, wise, and holy men,
desist."
The men again laughed. They were as busy as fiends with their shovels.
"Ah, brutal, cowardly, accursed men; ah, good, gentle, and holy men,
please remove some of those damnable peaks. I will adore your beautiful
shovels forever. I will be slave to the beckoning of your little
fingers. I will no longer be my own donkey--I will be your donkey."
The men burst into a triumphant shout and ceased shovelling.
"Swear it, mountain-carrier."
"I swear! I swear! I swear!"
The other animals scampered away then, for these men in their plots and
plans were very terrible. "Poor old foolish fellow," cried the horse;
"he may keep his ears. He will need them to hear and count the blows
that are now to fall upon him."
The men unearthed the donkey. They beat him with their shovels. "Ho,
come on, slave." Encrusted with earth, yellow-eyed from fright, the
donkey limped toward his prison. His ears hung down like leaves of the
plantain during the great rain.
So, now, when you see a donkey with a church, a palace, and three
villages upon his back, and he goes with infinite slowness, moving but
one leg at a time, do not think him lazy. It is his pride.
A MAN BY THE NAME OF MUD.
Deep in a leather chair, the Kid sat looking out at where the rain
slanted before the dull brown houses and hammered swiftly upon an
occasional lonely cab. The happy crackle from the great and glittering
fireplace behind him had evidently no meaning of content for him. He
appeared morose and unapproachable, and when a man appears morose and
unapproachable it is a fine chance for his intimate friends. Three or
four of them discovered his mood, and so hastened to be obnoxious.
"What's wrong, Kid? Lost your thirst?"
"He can never be happy again. He has lost his thirst."
"That's right, Kid. When you quarrel with a man who can whip you, resort
to sarcastic reflection and distance."
They cackled away persistently, but the Kid was mute and continued to
stare gloomily at the street.
Once a man who had been writing letters looked up and said, "I saw your
friend at the Comique the other night." He waited a moment and then
added, "In back."
The Kid wheeled about in his chair at this information, and all the
others saw then that it was important. One man said with deep
intelligence, "Ho, ho, a woman, hey? A woman's come between the two
Kids. A woman. Great, eh?" The Kid launched a glare of scorn across the
room, and then turned again to a contemplation of the rain. His friends
continued to do all in their power to worry him, but they fell
ultimately before his impregnable silence.
As it happened, he had not been brooding upon his friend's mysterious
absence at all. He had been concerned with himself. Once in a while he
seemed to perceive certain futilities and lapsed them immediately into a
state of voiceless dejection. These moods were not frequent.
An unexplained thing in his mind, however, was greatly enlightened by
the words of the gossip. He turned then from his harrowing scrutiny of
the amount of pleasure he achieved from living, and settled into a
comfortable reflection upon the state of his comrade, the other Kid.
Perhaps it could be indicated in this fashion: "Went to Comique, I
suppose. Saw girl. Secondary part, probably. Thought her rather natural.
Went to Comique again. Went again. One time happened to meet omnipotent
and good-natured friend. Broached subject to him with great caution.
Friend said--'Why, certainly, my boy, come round to-night, and I'll take
you in back. Remember, it's against all rules, but I think that in your
case, etc.' Kid went. Chorus girls winked same old wink. 'Here's another
dude on the prowl.' Kid aware of this, swearing under his breath and
looking very stiff. Meets girl. Knew beforehand that the footlights
might have sold him, but finds her very charming. Does not say single
thing to her which she naturally expected to hear. Makes no reference to
her beauty nor her voice--if she has any. Perhaps takes it for granted
that she knows. Girl don't exactly love this attitude, but then feels
admiration, because after all she can't tell whether he thinks her nice
or whether he don't. New scheme this. Worked by occasional guys in Rome
and Egypt, but still, new scheme. Kid goes away. Girl thinks. Later,
nails omnipotent and good-natured friend. 'Who was that you brought
back?' 'Oh, him? Why, he--' Describes the Kid's wealth, feats, and
virtues--virtues of disposition. Girl propounds clever question--'Why
did he wish to meet me?' Omnipotent person says, 'Damned if I know.'"
Later, Kid asks girl to supper. Not wildly anxious, but very evident
that he asks her because he likes her. Girl accepts; goes to supper. Kid
very good comrade and kind. Girl begins to think that here at last is a
man who understands her. Details ambitions--long, wonderful ambitions.
Explains her points of superiority over the other girls of stage. Says
their lives disgust her. She wants to work and study and make something
of herself. Kid smokes vast number of cigarettes. Displays and feels
deep sympathy. Recalls, but faintly, that he has heard it on previous
occasions. They have an awfully good time. Part at last in front of
apartment house. "Good-night, old chap." "Good-night." Squeeze hands
hard. Kid has no information at all about kissing her good-night, but
don't even try. Noble youth. Wise youth. Kid goes home and smokes. Feels
strong desire to kill people who say intolerable things of the girl in
rows. "Narrow, mean, stupid, ignorant, damnable people." Contemplates
the broad, fine liberality of his experienced mind.
Kid and girl become very chumy. Kid like a brother. Listens to her
troubles. Takes her out to supper regularly and regularly. Chorus girls
now tacitly recognise him as the main guy. Sometimes, may be, girl's
mother sick. Can't go to supper. Kid always very noble. Understands
perfectly the probabilities of there being others. Lays for 'em, but
makes no discoveries. Begins to wonder whether he is a winner or whether
she is a girl of marvellous cleverness. Can't tell. Maintains himself
with dignity, however. Only occasionally inveighs against the men who
prey upon the girls of the stage. Still noble.
Time goes on. Kid grows less noble. Perhaps decides not to be noble at
all, or as little as he can. Still inveighs against the men who prey
upon the girls of the stage. Thinks the girl stunning. Wants to be dead
sure there are no others. Once suspects it, and immediately makes the
colossal mistake of his life. Takes the girl to task. Girl won't stand
it for a minute. Harangues him. Kid surrenders and pleads with
her--pleads with her. Kid's name is mud.
A POKER GAME.
Usually a poker game is a picture of peace. There is no drama so
low-voiced and serene and monotonous. If an amateur loser does not
softly curse, there is no orchestral support. Here is one of the most
exciting and absorbing occupations known to intelligent American
manhood; here a year's reflection is compressed into a moment of
thought; here the nerves may stand on end and scream to themselves, but
a tranquillity as from heaven is only interrupted by the click of chips.
The higher the stakes the more quiet the scene; this is a law that
applies everywhere save on the stage.
And yet sometimes in a poker game things happen. Everybody remembers the
celebrated corner on bay rum that was triumphantly consummated by Robert
F. Cinch, of Chicago, assisted by the United States Courts and whatever
other federal power he needed. Robert F. Cinch enjoyed his victory four
months. Then he died, and young Bobbie Cinch came to New York in order
to more clearly demonstrate that there was a good deal of fun in
twenty-two million dollars.
Old Henry Spuytendyvil owns all the real estate in New York save that
previously appropriated by the hospitals and Central Park. He had been a
friend of Bob's father. When Bob appeared in New York, Spuytendyvil
entertained him correctly. It came to pass that they just naturally
played poker.
One night they were having a small game in an up-town hotel. There were
five of them, including two lawyers and a politician. The stakes
depended on the ability of the individual fortune.
Bobbie Cinch had won rather heavily. He was as generous as sunshine, and
when luck chases a generous man it chases him hard, even though he
cannot bet with all the skill of his opponents.
Old Spuytendyvil had lost a considerable amount. One of the lawyers from
time to time smiled quietly, because he knew Spuytendyvil well, and he
knew that anything with the name of loss attached to it sliced the old
man's heart into sections.
At midnight Archie Bracketts, the actor, came into the room. "How you
holding 'em, Bob?" said he.
"Pretty well," said Bob.
"Having any luck, Mr. Spuytendyvil?"
"Blooming bad," grunted the old man.
Bracketts laughed and put his foot on the round of Spuytendyvil's chair.
"There," said he, "I'll queer your luck for you." Spuytendyvil sat at
the end of the table. "Bobbie," said the actor, presently, as young
Cinch won another pot, "I guess I better knock your luck." So he took
his foot from the old man's chair and placed it on Bob's chair. The lad
grinned good-naturedly and said he didn't care.
Bracketts was in a position to scan both of the hands. It was Bob's
ante, and old Spuytendyvil threw in a red chip. Everybody passed out up
to Bobbie. He filled in the pot and drew a card.
Spuytendyvil drew a card. Bracketts, looking over his shoulder, saw him
holding the ten, nine, eight, and seven of diamonds. Theatrically
speaking, straight flushes are as frequent as berries on a juniper tree,
but as a matter of truth the reason that straight flushes are so admired
is because they are not as common as berries on a juniper tree.
Bracketts stared; drew a cigar slowly from his pocket, and placing it
between his teeth forgot its existence.
Bobbie was the only other stayer. Bracketts flashed an eye for the lad's
hand and saw the nine, eight, six, and five of hearts. Now, there are
but six hundred and forty-five emotions possible to the human mind, and
Bracketts immediately had them all. Under the impression that he had
finished his cigar, he took it from his mouth and tossed it toward the
grate without turning his eyes to follow its flight.
There happened to be a complete silence around the green-clothed table.
Spuytendyvil was studying his hand with a kind of contemptuous smile,
but in his eyes there perhaps was to be seen a cold, stern light
expressing something sinister and relentless.
Young Bob sat as he had sat. As the pause grew longer, he looked up once
inquiringly at Spuytendyvil.
The old man reached for a white chip. "Well, mine are worth about that
much," said he, tossing it into the pot. Thereupon he leaned back
comfortably in his chair and renewed his stare at the five straight
diamond. Young Bob extended his hand leisurely toward his stack. It
occurred to Bracketts that he was smoking, but he found no cigar in his
mouth.
The lad fingered his chips and looked pensively at his hand. The silence
of those moments oppressed Bracketts like the smoke from a
conflagration.
Bobbie Cinch continued for some moments to coolly observe his cards. At
last he breathed a little sigh and said, "Well, Mr. Spuytendyvil, I
can't play a sure thing against you." He threw in a white chip. "I'll
just call you. I've got a straight flush." He faced down his cards.
Old Spuytendyvil's fear, horror, and rage could only be equalled in
volume to a small explosion of gasolene. He dashed his cards upon the
table. "There!" he shouted, glaring frightfully at Bobbie. "I've got a
straight flush, too! And mine is Jack high!"
Bobbie was at first paralysed with amazement, but in a moment he
recovered, and apparently observing something amusing in the situation
he grinned.
Archie Bracketts, having burst his bond of silence, yelled for joy and
relief. He smote Bobbie on the shoulder. "Bob, my boy," he cried
exuberantly, "you're no gambler, but you're a mighty good fellow, and if
you hadn't been you would be losing a good many dollars this minute."
Old Spuytendyvil glowered at Bracketts. "Stop making such an infernal
din, will you, Archie," he said morosely. His throat seemed filled with
pounded glass. "Pass the whisky."
THE SNAKE.
Where the path wended across the ridge, the bushes of huckle-berry and
sweet fern swarmed at it in two curling waves until it was a mere
winding line traced through a tangle. There was no interference by
clouds, and as the rays of the sun fell full upon the ridge, they called
into voice innumerable insects which chanted the heat of the summer day
in steady, throbbing, unending chorus.
A man and a dog came from the laurel thickets of the valley where the
white brook brawled with the rocks. They followed the deep line of the
path across the ridge. The dog--a large lemon and white setter--walked,
tranquilly meditative, at his master's heels.
Suddenly from some unknown and yet near place in advance there came a
dry, shrill whistling rattle that smote motion instantly from the limbs
of the man and the dog. Like the fingers of a sudden death, this sound
seemed to touch the man at the nape of the neck, at the top of the
spine, and change him, as swift as thought, to a statue of listening
horror, surprise, rage. The dog, too--the same icy hand was laid upon
him, and he stood crouched and quivering, his jaw dropping, the froth of
terror upon his lips, the light of hatred in his eyes.
Slowly the man moved his hands toward the bushes, but his glance did not
turn from the place made sinister by the warning rattle. His fingers,
unguided, sought for a stick of weight and strength. Presently they
closed about one that seemed adequate, and holding this weapon poised
before him, the man moved slowly forward, glaring. The dog with his
nervous nostrils fairly fluttering moved warily, one foot at a time,
after his master.
But when the man came upon the snake, his body underwent a shock as if
from a revelation, as if after all he had been ambushed. With a blanched
face, he sprang forward, and his breath came in strained gasps, his
chest heaving as if he were in the performance of an extraordinary
muscular trial. His arm with the stick made a spasmodic, defensive
gesture.
The snake had apparently been crossing the path in some mystic travel
when to his sense there came the knowledge of the coming of his foes.
The dull vibration perhaps informed him, and he flung his body to face
the danger. He had no knowledge of paths; he had no wit to tell him to
slink noiselessly into the bushes. He knew that his implacable enemies
were approaching; no doubt they were seeking him, hunting him. And so
he cried his cry, an incredibly swift jangle of tiny bells, as burdened
with pathos as the hammering upon quaint cymbals by the Chinese at
war--for, indeed, it was usually his death-music.
"Beware! Beware! Beware!"
The man and the snake confronted each other. In the man's eyes were
hatred and fear. In the snake's eyes were hatred and fear. These enemies
manoeuvred, each preparing to kill. It was to be a battle without
mercy. Neither knew of mercy for such a situation. In the man was all
the wild strength of the terror of his ancestors, of his race, of his
kind. A deadly repulsion had been handed from man to man through long
dim centuries. This was another detail of a war that had begun evidently
when first there were men and snakes. Individuals who do not participate
in this strife incur the investigations of scientists. Once there was a
man and a snake who were friends, and at the end, the man lay dead with
the marks of the snake's caress just over his East Indian heart. In the
formation of devices, hideous and horrible, Nature reached her supreme
point in the making of the snake, so that priests who really paint hell
well fill it with snakes instead of fire. These curving forms, these
scintillant s create at once, upon sight, more relentless
animosities than do shake barbaric tribes. To be born a snake is to be
thrust into a place a-swarm with formidable foes. To gain an
appreciation of it, view hell as pictured by priests who are really
skilful.
As for this snake in the pathway, there was a double curve some inches
back of its head, which, merely by the potency of its lines, made the
man feel with tenfold eloquence the touch of the death-fingers at the
nape of his neck. The reptile's head was waving slowly from side to side
and its hot eyes flashed like little murder-lights. Always in the air
was the dry, shrill whistling of the rattles.
"Beware! Beware! Beware!"
The man made a preliminary feint with his stick. Instantly the snake's
heavy head and neck were bended back on the double curve and instantly
the snake's body shot forward in a low, straight, hard spring. The man
jumped with a convulsive chatter and swung his stick. The blind,
sweeping blow fell upon the snake's head and hurled him so that
steel-coloured plates were for a moment uppermost. But he rallied
swiftly, agilely, and again the head and neck bended back to the double
curve, and the steaming, wide-open mouth made its desperate effort to
reach its enemy. This attack, it could be seen, was despairing, but it
was nevertheless impetuous, gallant, ferocious, of the same quality as
the charge of the lone chief when the walls of white faces close upon
him in the mountains. The stick swung unerringly again, and the snake,
mutilated, torn, whirled himself into the last coil.
And now the man went sheer raving mad from the emotions of his
forefathers and from his own. He came to close quarters. He gripped the
stick with his two hands and made it speed like a flail. The snake,
tumbling in the anguish of final despair, fought, bit, flung itself upon
this stick which was taking his life.
At the end, the man clutched his stick and stood watching in silence.
The dog came slowly and with infinite caution stretched his nose
forward, sniffing. The hair upon his neck and back moved and ruffled as
if a sharp wind was blowing. The last muscular quivers of the snake were
causing the rattles to still sound their treble cry, the shrill, ringing
war chant and hymn of the grave of the thing that faces foes at once
countless, implacable, and superior.
"Well, Rover," said the man, turning to the dog with a grin of victory,
"we'll carry Mr. Snake home to show the girls."
His hands still trembled from the strain of the encounter, but he pried
with his stick under the body of the snake and hoisted the limp thing
upon it. He resumed his march along the path, and the dog walked,
tranquilly meditative, at his master's heels.
A SELF-MADE MAN.
AN EXAMPLE OF SUCCESS THAT ANY ONE CAN FOLLOW.
Tom had a hole in his shoe. It was very round and very uncomfortable,
particularly when he went on wet pavements. Rainy days made him feel
that he was walking on frozen dollars, although he had only to think for
a moment to discover he was not.
He used up almost two packs of playing cards by means of putting four
cards at a time inside his shoe as a sort of temporary sole, which
usually lasted about half a day. Once he put in four aces for luck. He
went down town that morning and got refused work. He thought it wasn't a
very extraordinary performance for a young man of ability, and he was
not sorry that night to find his packs were entirely out of aces.
One day Tom was strolling down Broadway. He was in pursuit of work,
although his pace was slow. He had found that he must take the matter
coolly. So he puffed tenderly at a cigarette and walked as if he owned
stock. He imitated success so successfully, that if it wasn't for the
constant reminder (king, queen, deuce, and tray) in his shoe, he would
have gone into a store and bought something.
He had borrowed five cents that morning off his landlady, for his mouth
craved tobacco. Although he owed her much for board, she had unlimited
confidence in him, because his stock of self-assurance was very large
indeed. And as it increased in a proper ratio with the amount of his
bills, his relations with her seemed on a firm basis. So he strolled
along and smoked with his confidence in fortune in nowise impaired by
his financial condition.
Of a sudden he perceived on old man seated upon a railing and smoking a
clay pipe.
He stopped to look, because he wasn't in a hurry, and because it was an
unusual thing on Broadway to see old men seated upon railings and
smoking clay pipes.
And to his surprise the old man regarded him very intently in return. He
stared, with a wistful expression, into Tom's face, and he clasped his
hands in trembling excitement.
Tom was filled with astonishment at the old man's strange demeanour. He
stood puffing at his cigarette, and tried to understand matters.
Failing, he threw his cigarette away, took a fresh one from his pocket,
and approached the old man.
"Got a match?" he inquired, pleasantly.
The old man, much agitated, nearly fell from the railing as he leaned
dangerously forward.
"Sonny, can you read?" he demanded in a quavering voice.
"Certainly, I can," said Tom, encouragingly. He waived the affair of the
match.
The old man fumbled in his pocket. "You look honest, sonny. I've been
looking for an honest feller fur a'most a week. I've set on this railing
fur six days," he cried, plaintively.
He drew forth a letter and handed it to Tom. "Read it fur me, sonny,
read it," he said, coaxingly.
Tom took the letter and leaned back against the railings. As he opened
it and prepared to read, the old man wriggled like a child at a
forbidden feast.
Thundering trucks made frequent interruptions, and seven men in a hurry
jogged Tom's elbow, but he succeeded in reading what follows:--
Office of Ketchum R. Jones, Attorney-at-Law,
Tin Can, Nevada, May 19, 18--.
Rufus Wilkins, Esq.
Dear Sir,--I have as yet received no acknowledgment of the draft
from the sale of the north section lots, which I forwarded to you
on 25th June. I would request an immediate reply concerning it.
Since my last I have sold the three corner lots at five thousand
each. The city grew so rapidly in that direction that they were
surrounded by brick stores almost before you would know it. I have
also sold for four thousand dollars the ten acres of out-laying
sage bush, which you once foolishly tried to give away. Mr.
Simpson, of Boston, bought the tract. He is very shrewd, no doubt,
but he hasn't been in the west long. Still, I think if he holds it
for about a thousand years, he may come out all right.
I worked him with the projected-horse-car-line gag.
Inform me of the address of your New York attorneys, and I will
send on the papers. Pray do not neglect to write me concerning the
draft sent on 25th June.
In conclusion, I might say that if you have any eastern friends who
are after good western investments inform them of the glorious
future of Tin Can. We now have three railroads, a bank, an electric
light plant, a projected horse-car line, and an art society. Also,
a saw manufactory, a patent car-wheel mill, and a Methodist Church.
Tin Can is marching forward to take her proud stand as the
metropolis of the west. The rose-hued future holds no glories to
which Tin Can does not--
Tom stopped abruptly. "I guess the important part of the letter came
first," he said.
"Yes," cried the old man, "I've heard enough. It is just as I thought.
George has robbed his dad."
The old man's frail body quivered with grief. Two tears trickled slowly
down the furrows of his face.
"Come, come, now," said Tom, patting him tenderly on the back. "Brace
up, old feller. What you want to do is to get a lawyer and go put the
screws on George."
"Is it really?" asked the old man, eagerly.
"Certainly, it is," said Tom.
"All right," cried the old man, with enthusiasm. "Tell me where to get
one." He slid down from the railing and prepared to start off.
Tom reflected. "Well," he said, finally, "I might do for one myself."
"What," shouted the old man in a voice of admiration, "are you a lawyer
as well as a reader?"
"Well," said Tom again, "I might appear to advantage as one. All you
need is a big front," he added, slowly. He was a profane young man.
The old man seized him by the arm. "Come on, then," he cried, "and we'll
go put the screws on George."
Tom permitted himself to be dragged by the weak arms of his companion
around a corner and along a side street. As they proceeded, he was
internally bracing himself for a struggle, and putting large bales of
self-assurance around where they would be likely to obstruct the advance
of discovery and defeat.
By the time they reached a brown-stone house, hidden away in a street of
shops and warehouses, his mental balance was so admirable that he seemed
to be in possession of enough information and brains to ruin half of the
city, and he was no more concerned about the king, queen, deuce, and
tray than if they had been discards that didn't fit his draw. He infused
so much confidence and courage into his companion, that the old man went
along the street, breathing war, like a decrepit hound on the scent of
new blood.
He ambled up the steps of the brown-stone house as if he were charging
earthworks. He unlocked the door and they passed along a dark hallway.
In a rear room they found a man seated at table engaged with a very late
breakfast. He had a diamond in his shirt front and a bit of egg on his
cuff.
"George," said the old man in a fierce voice that came from his aged
throat with a sound like the crackle of burning twigs, "here's my
lawyer, Mr. er--ah--Smith, and we want to know what you did with the
draft that was sent on 25th June."
The old man delivered the words as if each one was a musket shot.
George's coffee spilled softly upon the tablecover, and his fingers
worked convulsively upon a slice of bread. He turned a white, astonished
face toward the old man and the intrepid Thomas.
The latter, straight and tall, with a highly legal air, stood at the old
man's side. His glowing eyes were fixed upon the face of the man at the
table. They seemed like two little detective cameras taking pictures of
the other man's thoughts.
"Father, what d--do you mean," faltered George, totally unable to
withstand the two cameras and the highly legal air.
"What do I mean?" said the old man with a feeble roar as from an ancient
lion. "I mean that draft--that's what I mean. Give it up or
we'll--we'll"--he paused to gain courage by a glance at the formidable
figure at his side--"we'll put the screws on you."
"Well, I was--I was only borrowin' it for 'bout a month," said George.
"Ah," said Tom.
George started, glared at Tom, and then began to shiver like an animal
with a broken back. There were a few moments of silence. The old man was
fumbling about in his mind for more imprecations. George was wilting and
turning limp before the glittering orbs of the valiant attorney. The
latter, content with the exalted advantage he had gained by the use of
the expression "Ah," spoke no more, but continued to stare.
"Well," said George, finally, in a weak voice, "I s'pose I can give you
a cheque for it, 'though I was only borrowin' it for 'bout a month. I
don't think you have treated me fairly, father, with your lawyers and
your threats, and all that. But I'll give you the cheque."
The old man turned to his attorney. "Well?" he asked.
Tom looked at the son and held an impressive debate with himself. "I
think we may accept the cheque," he said coldly after a time.
George arose and tottered across the room. He drew a cheque that made
the attorney's heart come privately into his mouth. As he and his
client passed triumphantly out, he turned a last highly legal glare upon
George that reduced that individual to a mere paste.
On the side-walk the old man went into a spasm of delight and called his
attorney all the admiring and endearing names there were to be had.
"Lord, how you settled him," he cried ecstatically.
They walked slowly back toward Broadway. "The scoundrel," murmured the
old man. "I'll never see 'im again. I'll desert 'im. I'll find a nice
quiet boarding-place and--"
"That's all right," said Tom. "I know one. I'll take you right up,"
which he did.
He came near being happy ever after. The old man lived at advanced rates
in the front room at Tom's boarding-house. And the latter basked in the
proprietress' smiles, which had a commercial value, and were a great
improvement on many we see.
The old man, with his quantities of sage bush, thought Thomas owned all
the virtues mentioned in high-class literature, and his opinion, too,
was of commercial value. Also, he knew a man who knew another man who
received an impetus which made him engage Thomas on terms that were
highly satisfactory. Then it was that the latter learned he had not
succeeded sooner because he did not know a man who knew another man.
So it came to pass that Tom grew to be Thomas G. Somebody. He achieved
that position in life from which he could hold out for good wines when
he went to poor restaurants. His name became entangled with the name of
Wilkins in the ownership of vast and valuable tracts of sage bush in Tin
Can, Nevada.
At the present day he is so great that he lunches frugally at high
prices. His fame has spread through the land as a man who carved his way
to fortune with no help but his undaunted pluck, his tireless energy,
and his sterling integrity.
Newspapers apply to him now, and he writes long signed articles to
struggling young men, in which he gives the best possible advice as to
how to become wealthy. In these articles, he, in a burst of
glorification, cites the king, queen, deuce, and tray, the four aces,
and all that. He alludes tenderly to the nickel he borrowed and spent
for cigarettes as the foundation of his fortune.
"To succeed in life," he writes, "the youth of America have only to see
an old man seated upon a railing and smoking a clay pipe. Then go up and
ask him for a match."
A TALE OF MERE CHANCE.
BEING AN ACCOUNT OF THE PURSUIT OF THE TILES, THE STATEMENT OF THE
CLOCK, AND THE GRIP OF A COAT OF ORANGE SPOTS, TOGETHER WITH SOME
CRITICISM OF A DETECTIVE SAID TO BE CARVED FROM AN OLD TABLE-LEG.
Yes, my friend, I killed the man, but I would not have been detected in
it were it not for some very extraordinary circumstances. I had long
considered this deed, but I am a delicate and sensitive person, you
understand, and I hesitated over it as the diver hesitates on the brink
of a dark and icy mountain pool. A thought of the shock of the contact
holds one back.
As I was passing his house one morning, I said to myself, "Well, at any
rate, if she loves him, it will not be for long." And after that
decision I was not myself, but a sort of a machine.
I rang the bell and the servants admitted me to the drawing-room. I
waited there while the old tall clock placidly ticked its speech of
time. The rigid and austere chairs remained in possession of their
singular imperturbability, although, of course, they were aware of my
purpose, but the little white tiles of the floor whispered one to
another and looked at me. Presently he entered the room, and I, drawing
my revolver, shot him. He screamed--you know that scream--mostly
amazement--and as he fell forward his blood was upon the little white
tiles. They huddled and covered their eyes from this rain. It seemed to
me that the old clock stopped ticking as a man may gasp in the middle of
a sentence, and a chair threw itself in my way as I sprang toward the
door.
A moment later, I was walking down the street, tranquil, you understand,
and I said to myself, "It is done. Long years from this day I will say
to her that it was I who killed him. After time has eaten the conscience
of the thing, she will admire my courage."
I was elated that the affair had gone off so smoothly, and I felt like
returning home and taking a long, full sleep, like a tired working man.
When people passed me, I contemplated their stupidity with a sense of
satisfaction.
But those accursed little white tiles.
I heard a shrill crying and chattering behind me, and, looking back, I
saw them, blood-stained and impassioned, raising their little hands and
screaming "Murder! It was he!" I have said that they had little hands. I
am not sure of it, but they had some means of indicating me as
unerringly as pointing fingers. As for their movement, they swept along
as easily as dry, light leaves are carried by the wind. Always they were
shrilly piping their song of my guilt.
My friend, may it never be your fortune to be pursued by a crowd of
little blood-stained tiles. I used a thousand means to be free from the
clash-clash of these tiny feet. I ran through the world at my best
speed, but it was no better than that of an ox, while they, my pursuers,
were always fresh, eager, relentless.
I am an ingenious person, and I used every trick that a desperate,
fertile man can invent. Hundreds of times I had almost evaded them when
some smouldering, neglected spark would blaze up and discover me.
I felt that the eye of conviction would have no terrors for me, but the
eyes of suspicion which I saw in city after city, on road after road,
drove me to the verge of going forward and saying, "Yes, I have
murdered."
People would see the following, clamorous troops of blood-stained tiles,
and give me piercing glances, so that these swords played continually at
my heart. But we are a decorous race, thank God. It is very vulgar to
apprehend murderers on the public streets. We have learned correct
manners from the English. Besides, who can be sure of the meaning of
clamouring tiles? It might be merely a trick in politics.
Detectives? What are detectives? Oh, yes, I have read of them and their
deeds, when I come to think of it. The prehistoric races must have been
remarkable. I have never been able to understand how the detective
navigated in stone boats. Still, specimens of their pottery excavated in
Taumalipas show a remarkable knowledge of mechanics. I remember the
little hydraulic--what's that? Well, what you say may be true, my
friend, but I think you dream.
The little stained tiles. My friend, I stopped in an inn at the ends of
the earth, and in the morning they were there flying like little birds
and pecking at my window.
I should have escaped. Heavens, I should have escaped. What was more
simple? I murdered and then walked into the world, which is wide and
intricate.
Do you know that my own clock assisted in the hunting of me? They asked
what time I left my home that morning, and it replied at once,
"Half-after eight." The watch of a man I had chanced to pass near the
house of the crime told the people "Seven minutes after nine." And, of
course, the tall, old clock in the drawing-room went about day after day
repeating, "Eighteen minutes after nine."
Do you say that the man who caught me was very clever? My friend, I have
lived long, and he was the most incredible blockhead of my experience.
An enslaved, dust-eating Mexican vaquero wouldn't hitch his pony to such
a man. Do you think he deserves credit for my capture? If he had been as
pervading as the atmosphere, he would never have caught me. If he was a
detective, as you say, I could carve a better one from an old table-leg.
But the tiles. That is another matter. At night I think they flew in
long high flock, like pigeons. In the day, little mad things, they
murmured on my trail like frothy-mouthed weasels.
I see that you note these great, round, vividly orange spots on my coat.
Of course, even if the detective were really carved from an old
table-leg, he could hardly fail to apprehend a man thus badged. As sores
come upon one in the plague so came these spots upon my coat. When I
discovered them, I made effort to free myself of this coat. I tore,
tugged, wrenched at it, but around my shoulders it was like a grip of a
dead man's arms. Do you know that I have plunged into a thousand lakes?
I have smeared this coat with a thousand paints. But day and night the
spots burn like lights. I might walk from this jail to-day if I could
rid myself of this coat, but it clings--clings--clings.
At any rate, the person you call a detective was not so clever to
discover a man in a coat of spotted orange, followed by shrieking,
blood-stained tiles. Yes, that noise from the corridor is most peculiar.
But they are always there, muttering and watching, clashing and
jostling. It sounds as if the dishes of Hades were being washed. Yet I
have become used to it. Once, indeed, in the night, I cried out to them,
"In God's name, go away, little blood-stained tiles." But they doggedly
answered, "It is the law."
AT CLANCY'S WAKE.
SCENE--_Room in the house of the lamented Clancy. The curtains are
pulled down. A perfume of old roses and whisky hangs in the air. A
weeping woman in black it seated at a table in the centre. A group of
wide-eyed children are sobbing in a corner. Down the side of the room is
a row of mourning friends of the family. Through an open door can be
seen, half hidden in shadows, the silver and black of a coffin._
WIDOW--Oh, wirra, wirra, wirra!
CHILDREN--B-b boo-hoo-hoo!
FRIENDS (_conversing in low tones_)--Yis, Moike Clancy was a foine mahn,
sure! None betther! No, I don't t'ink so. Did he? Sure, all th'
elictions! He was th' bist in the warrud! He licked 'im widin an inch of
his loife, aisy, an' th' other wan a big, shtrappin' buck of a mahn, an'
him jes' free of th' pneumonia! Yis, he did! They carried th' warrud by
six hunder! Yis, he was a foine mahn. None betther. Gawd sav' 'im!
(_Enter_ Mr. SLICK, _of the "Daily Blanket," shown in by a maid-servant,
whose hair has become disarranged through much tear-shedding. He is
attired in a suit of grey check, and wears a red rose in his
buttonhole._)
Mr. SLICK--Good afternoon, Mrs. Clancy. This is a sad misfortune for
you, isn't it?
WIDOW--Oh, indade, indade, young mahn, me poor heart is bruk.
Mr. SLICK--Very sad, Mrs. Clancy. A great misfortune, I'm sure. Now,
Mrs. Clancy, I've called to--
WIDOW--Little did I t'ink, young mahn, win they brought poor Moike in
that it was th' lasht!
Mr. SLICK (_with conviction_)--True! True! Very true, indeed. It was a
great grief to you, Mrs. Clancy. I've called this morning, Mrs. Clancy,
to see if I could get from you a short obituary notice for the _Blanket_
if you could--
WIDOW--An' his hid was done up in a rag, an' he was cursin' frightful. A
damned Oytalian lit fall th' hod as Moike was walkin' pasht as dacint as
you plaze. Win they carried 'im in, him all bloody, an' ravin' tur'ble
'bout Oytalians, me heart was near bruk, but I niver tawt--I niver
tawt--I--I niver--(_Breaks forth into a long, forlorn cry. The children
join in, and the chorus echoes wailfully through the rooms._)
Mr. SLICK (_as the yell, in a measure, ceases_)--Yes, indeed, a sad, sad
affair. A terrible misfortune. Now, Mrs. Clancy--
WIDOW (_turning suddenly_)--Mary Ann. Where's thot lazy divil of a Mary
Ann? (_As the servant appears._) Mary Ann, bring th' bottle! Give th'
gintlemin a dhrink!... Here's to Hiven savin' yez, young mahn.
(_Drinks._)
Mr. SLICK (_drinks_)--A noble whisky, Mrs. Clancy. Many thanks. Now,
Mrs. Clancy--
WIDOW--Take anodder wan! Take anodder wan! (_Fills his glass._)
Mr. SLICK (_impatiently_)--Yes, certainly, Mrs. Clancy, certainly. (_He
drinks._) Now, could you tell me, Mrs. Clancy, where your late husband
was--
WIDOW--Who--Moike? Oh, young mahn, yez can just say thot he was the
foinest mahn livin' an' breathin', an' niver a wan in th' warrud was
betther. Oh, but he had th' tindther heart for 'is fambly, he did. Don't
I remimber win he clipped little Patsey wid th' bottle, an' didn't he
buy th' big rockin'-horse th' minit he got sober? Sure he did. Pass th'
bottle, Mary Ann! (_Pours a beer-glass about half-full for her guest._)
Mr. SLICK (_taking a seat_)--True, Mr. Clancy was a fine man, Mrs.
Clancy--a _very_ fine man. Now, I--
WIDOW (_plaintively_)--An' don't yez loike th' rum? Dhrink th' rum,
mahn! It was me own Moike's fav'rite bran'. Well I remimber win he
fotched it home, an' half th' demijohn gone a'ready, an' him a-cursin'
up th' stairs as dhrunk as Gawd plazed. It was a--Dhrink th' rum, young
mahn, dhrink th' rum! If he cud see yez now, Moike Clancy wud git up
from 'is--
Mr. SLICK (_desperately_)--Very well, very well, Mrs. Clancy. Here's
your good health. Now, can you tell me, Mrs. Clancy, when was Mr. Clancy
born?
WIDOW--Win was he borrun. Sure, divil a bit do I care win he was borrun.
He was th' good mahn to me an' his childher; an' Gawd knows I don't care
win he was borrun. Mary Ann, pass th' bottle! Wud yez kape th' gintlemin
starvin' for a dhrink here in Moike Clancy's own house? Gawd save yez.
(_When the bottle appears she pours a huge quantity out for her guest_.)
Mr. SLICK--Well, then, Mrs. Clancy, _where_ was he born?
WIDOW (_staring_)--In Oirland, mahn, in Oirland! Where did yez t'ink?
(_Then, in sudden, wheedling tones._) An' ain't yez goin' to dhrink th'
rum? Are yez goin' to shirk th' good whisky what was th' pride of
Moike's life, an' him gettin' full on it an' breakin' th' furnitir t'ree
nights a week hard-runnin'? Shame an yez, an' Gawd save yer soul. Dhrink
it oop now, there's a dear, dhrink it oop now, an' say: "Moike Clancy,
be all th' powers in th' shky, Hiven sind yez rist!"
Mr. SLICK--(_to himself_)--Holy smoke! (_He drinks, then regards the
glass for a long time._) ... Well, now, Mrs. Clancy, give me your
attention for a moment, please. When did--
WIDOW--An' oh, but he was a power in th' warrud! Divil a mahn cud vote
right widout Moike Clancy at 'is elbow. An' in th' calkus, sure didn't
Mulrooney git th' nominashun jes' by raison of Moike's atthackin' th'
opposashun wid th' shtove-poker. Mulrooney got it as aisy as dhirt, wid
Moike rowlin' under th' tayble wid th' other candeedate. He was a good
sit'zen, was Moike--divil a wan betther.
Mr. SLICK _spends some minutes in collecting his faculties_.
Mr. SLICK (_after he decides that he has them collected_)--Yes, yes,
Mrs. Clancy, your husband's h-highly successful pol-pol-political career
was w-well known to the public; but what I want to know is--what I want
to know--(_Pauses to consider._)
WIDOW (_finally_)--Pass th' glasses, Mary Ann, yez lazy divil; give th'
gintlemin a dhrink! Here (_tendering him a glass_), take anodder wan to
Moike Clancy, an' Gawd save yez for yer koindness to a poor widee woman!
Mr. SLICK (_after solemnly regarding the glass_)--Certainly, I--I'll
take a drink. Certainly, M--Mish Clanshy. Yes, certainly, Mish Clanshy.
Now, Mish Clanshy, w-w-wash was Mr. Clanshy's n-name before he married
you, Mish Clanshy?
WIDOW (_astonished_)--Why, divil a bit else but Clancy.
Mr. SLICK (_after reflection_)--Well, but I mean--I mean, Mish Clanshy,
I mean--what was date of birth? Did marry you 'fore then, or d-did marry
you when 'e was born in N' York, Mish Clanshy?
WIDOW--Phwat th' divil--
Mr. SLICK (_with dignity_)--Ansher my queshuns, pleash, Mish Clanshy.
Did 'e bring chil'en withum f'm Irelan', or was you, after married in N'
York, mother those chil'en 'e brought f'm Irelan'?
WIDOW--Be th' powers above, I--
Mr. SLICK (_with gentle patience_)--I don't shink y' unnerstan' m'
queshuns, Mish Clanshy. What I wanna fin' out is, what was 'e born in N'
York for when he, before zat, came f'm Irelan'? Dash what puzzels me.
I-I'm completely puzzled. An' alsho, I wanna fin' out--I wanna fin' out,
if poshble--zat is, if it's poshble shing, I wanna fin' out--I wanna
fin' out--if poshble--I wanna-shay, who the blazesh is dead here,
anyhow?
AN EPISODE OF WAR.
The lieutenant's rubber blanket lay on the ground, and upon it he had
poured the company's supply of coffee. Corporals and other
representatives of the grimy and hot-throated men who lined the
breastwork had come for each squad's portion.
The lieutenant was frowning and serious at this task of division. His
lips pursed as he drew with his sword various crevices in the heap until
brown squares of coffee, astoundingly equal in size, appeared on the
blanket. He was on the verge of a great triumph in mathematics, and the
corporals were thronging forward, each to reap a little square, when
suddenly the lieutenant cried out and looked quickly at a man near him
as if he suspected it was a case of personal assault. The others cried
out also when they saw blood upon the lieutenant's sleeve.
He has winced like a man stung, swayed dangerously, and then
straightened. The sound of his hoarse breathing was plainly audible. He
looked sadly, mystically, over the breastwork at the green face of a
wood, where now were many little puffs of white smoke. During this
moment the men about him gazed statue-like and silent, astonished and
awed by this catastrophe which happened when catastrophes were not
expected--when they had leisure to observe it.
As the lieutenant stared at the wood, they too swung their heads, so
that for another instant all hands, still silent, contemplated the
distant forest as if their minds were fixed upon the mystery of a
bullet's journey.
The officer had, of course, been compelled to take his sword into his
left hand. He did not hold it by the hilt. He gripped it at the middle
of the blade, awkwardly. Turning his eyes from the hostile wood, he
looked at the sword as he held it there, and seemed puzzled as to what
to do with it, where to put it. In short, this weapon had of a sudden
become a strange thing to him. He looked at it in a kind of
stupefaction, as if he had been endowed with a trident, a sceptre, or a
spade.
Finally he tried to sheath it. To sheath a sword held by the left hand,
at the middle of the blade, in a scabbard hung at the left hip, is a
feat worthy of a sawdust ring. This wounded officer engaged in a
desperate struggle with the sword and the wobbling scabbard, and during
the time of it he breathed like a wrestler.
But at this instant the men, the spectators, awoke from their stone-like
poses and crowded forward sympathetically. The orderly-sergeant took
the sword and tenderly placed it in the scabbard. At the time, he leaned
nervously backward, and did not allow even his finger to brush the body
of the lieutenant. A wound gives strange dignity to him who bears it.
Well men shy from this new and terrible majesty. It is as if the wounded
man's hand is upon the curtain which hangs before the revelations of all
existence--the meaning of ants, potentates, wars, cities, sunshine,
snow, a feather dropped from a bird's wing; and the power of it sheds
radiance upon a bloody form, and makes the other men understand
sometimes that they are little. His comrades look at him with large eyes
thoughtfully. Moreover, they fear vaguely that the weight of a finger
upon him might send him headlong, precipitate the tragedy, hurl him at
once into the dim, grey unknown. And so the orderly-sergeant, while
sheathing the sword, leaned nervously backward.
There were others who proffered assistance. One timidly presented his
shoulder and asked the lieutenant if he cared to lean upon it, but the
latter waved him away mournfully. He wore the look of one who knows he
is the victim of a terrible disease and understands his helplessness. He
again stared over the breastwork at the forest, and then turning went
slowly rearward. He held his right wrist tenderly in his left hand as if
the wounded arm was made of very brittle glass.
And the men in silence stared at the wood, then at the departing
lieutenant--then at the wood, then at the lieutenant.
As the wounded officer passed from the line of battle, he was enabled to
see many things which as a participant in the fight were unknown to him.
He saw a general on a black horse gazing over the lines of blue infantry
at the green woods which veiled his problems. An aide galloped
furiously, dragged his horse suddenly to a halt, saluted, and presented
a paper. It was, for a wonder, precisely like an historical painting.
To the rear of the general and his staff a group, composed of a bugler,
two or three orderlies, and the bearer of the corps standard, all upon
maniacal horses, were working like slaves to hold their ground, preserve
their respectful interval, while the shells boomed in the air about
them, and caused their chargers to make furious quivering leaps.
A battery, a tumultuous and shining mass, was swirling toward the right.
The wild thud of hoofs, the cries of the riders shouting blame and
praise, menace and encouragement, and, last, the roar of the wheels, the
slant of the glistening guns, brought the lieutenant to an intent pause.
The battery swept in curves that stirred the heart; it made halts as
dramatic as the crash of a wave on the rocks, and when it fled onward,
this aggregation of wheels, levers, motors, had a beautiful unity, as
if it were a missile. The sound of it was a war-chorus that reached into
the depths of man's emotion.
The lieutenant, still holding his arm as if it were of glass, stood
watching this battery until all detail of it was lost, save the figures
of the riders, which rose and fell and waved lashes over the black mass.
Later, he turned his eyes toward the battle where the shooting sometimes
crackled like bush-fires, sometimes sputtered with exasperating
irregularity, and sometimes reverberated like the thunder. He saw the
smoke rolling upward and saw crowds of men who ran and cheered, or stood
and blazed away at the inscrutable distance.
He came upon some stragglers, and they told him how to find the field
hospital. They described its exact location. In fact, these men, no
longer having part in the battle, knew more of it than others. They told
the performance of every corps, every division, the opinion of every
general. The lieutenant, carrying his wounded arm rearward, looked upon
them with wonder.
At the roadside a brigade was making coffee and buzzing with talk like a
girls' boarding-school. Several officers came out to him and inquired
concerning things of which he knew nothing. One, seeing his arm, began
to scold. "Why, man, that's no way to do. You want to fix that thing."
He appropriated the lieutenant and the lieutenant's wound. He cut the
sleeve and laid bare the arm, every nerve of which softly fluttered
under his touch. He bound his handkerchief over the wound, scolding away
in the meantime. His tone allowed one to think that he was in the habit
of being wounded every day. The lieutenant hung his head, feeling, in
this presence, that he did not know how to be correctly wounded.
The low white tents of the hospital were grouped around an old
school-house. There was here a singular commotion. In the foreground two
ambulances interlocked wheels in the deep mud. The drivers were tossing
the blame of it back and forth, gesticulating and berating, while from
the ambulances, both crammed with wounded, there came an occasional
groan. An interminable crowd of bandaged men were coming and going.
Great numbers sat under the trees nursing heads or arms or legs. There
was a dispute of some kind raging on the steps of the school-house.
Sitting with his back against a tree a man with a face as grey as a new
army blanket was serenely smoking a corn-cob pipe. The lieutenant wished
to rush forward and inform him that he was dying.
A busy surgeon was passing near the lieutenant. "Good-morning," he said,
with a friendly smile. Then he caught sight of the lieutenant's arm and
his face at once changed. "Well, let's have a look at it." He seemed
possessed suddenly of a great contempt for the lieutenant. This wound
evidently placed the latter on a very low social plane. The doctor cried
out impatiently, "What mutton-head had tied it up that way anyhow?" The
lieutenant answered, "Oh, a man."
When the wound was disclosed the doctor fingered it disdainfully.
"Humph," he said. "You come along with me and I'll 'tend to you." His
voice contained the same scorn as if he were saying, "You will have to
go to jail."
The lieutenant had been very meek, but now his face flushed, and he
looked into the doctor's eyes. "I guess I won't have it amputated," he
said.
"Nonsense, man! Nonsense! Nonsense!" cried the doctor. "Come along, now.
I won't amputate it. Come along. Don't be a baby."
"Let go of me," said the lieutenant, holding back wrathfully, his glance
fixed upon the door of the old school-house, as sinister to him as the
portals of death.
And this is the story of how the lieutenant lost his arm. When he
reached home, his sisters, his mother, his wife, sobbed for a long time
at the sight of the flat sleeve. "Oh, well," he said, standing
shamefaced amid these tears, "I don't suppose it matters so much as all
that."
THE VOICE OF THE MOUNTAIN.
The old man Popocatepetl was seated on a high rock with his white mantle
about his shoulders. He looked at the sky, he looked at the sea, he
looked at the land--nowhere could he see any food. And he was very
hungry, too.
Who can understand the agony of a creature whose stomach is as large as
a thousand churches, when this same stomach is as empty as a broken
water jar?
He looked longingly at some island in the sea. "Ah, those flat cakes! If
I had them." He stared at storm-clouds in the sky. "Ah, what a drink is
there." But the King of Everything, you know, had forbidden the old man
Popocatepetl to move at all, because he feared that every footprint
would make a great hole in the land. So the old fellow was obliged to
sit still and wait for his food to come within reach. Any one who has
tried this plan knows what intervals lie between meals.
Once his friend, the little eagle, flew near, and Popocatepetl called to
him. "Ho, tiny bird, come and consider with me as to how I shall be
fed."
The little eagle came and spread his legs apart and considered manfully,
but he could do nothing with the situation. "You see," he said, "this is
no ordinary hunger which one goat will suffice--"
Popocatepetl groaned an assent.
"--but it is an enormous affair," continued the little eagle, "which
requires something like a dozen stars. I don't see what can be done
unless we get that little creature of the earth--that little animal with
two arms, two legs, one head, and a very brave air, to invent something.
He is said to be very wise."
"Who claims it for him?" asked Popocatepetl.
"He claims it for himself," responded the eagle.
"Well, summon him. Let us see. He is doubtless a kind little animal, and
when he sees my distress he will invent something."
"Good!" The eagle flew until he discovered one of these small creatures.
"Oh, tiny animal, the great chief Popocatepetl summons you!"
"Does he, indeed!"
"Popocatepetl, the great chief," said the eagle again, thinking that the
little animal had not heard rightly.
"Well, and why does he summon me?"
"Because he is in distress, and he needs your assistance."
The little animal reflected for a time, and then said, "I will go."
When Popocatepetl perceived the little animal and the eagle he stretched
forth his great, solemn arms. "Oh, blessed little animal with two arms,
two legs, a head, and a very brave air, help me in my agony. Behold I,
Popocatepetl, who saw the King of Everything fashioning the stars, I,
who knew the sun in his childhood, I, Popocatepetl, appeal to you,
little animal. I am hungry."
After a while the little animal asked: "How much will you pay?"
"Pay?" said Popocatepetl.
"Pay?" said the eagle.
"Assuredly," quoth the little animal, "pay!"
"But," demanded Popocatepetl, "were you never hungry? I tell you I am
hungry, and is your first word then 'pay'?"
The little animal turned coldly away. "Oh, Popocatepetl, how much wisdom
has flown past you since you saw the King of Everything fashioning the
stars and since you knew the sun in his childhood? I said pay, and,
moreover, your distress measures my price. It is our law. Yet it is true
that we did not see the King of Everything fashioning the stars. Nor did
we know the sun in his childhood."
Then did Popocatepetl roar and shake in his rage. "Oh,
louse--louse--louse! Let us bargain then! How much for your blood?" Over
the little animal hung death.
But he instantly bowed himself and prayed: "Popocatepetl, the great, you
who saw the King of Everything fashioning the stars, and who knew the
sun in his childhood, forgive this poor little animal. Your sacred
hunger shall be my care. I am your servant."
"It is well," said Popocatepetl at once, for his spirit was ever kindly.
"And now, what will you do?"
The little animal put his hand upon his chin and reflected. "Well, it
seems you are hungry, and the King of Everything has forbidden you to go
for food in fear that your monstrous feet will riddle the earth with
holes. What you need is a pair of wings."
"A pair of wings!" cried Popocatepetl delightedly.
"A pair of wings!" screamed the eagle in joy.
"How very simple, after all."
"And yet how wise!"
"But," said Popocatepetl, after the first outburst, "who can make me
these wings?"
The little animal replied: "I and my kind are great, because at times we
can make one mind control a hundred thousand bodies. This is the secret
of our performance. It will be nothing for us to make wings for even
you, great Popocatepetl. I and my kind will come"--continued the crafty,
little animal--"we will come and dwell on this beautiful plain that
stretches from the sea to the sea, and we will make wings for you."
Popocatepetl wished to embrace the little animal. "Oh, glorious! Oh,
best of little brutes! Run! run! run! Summon your kind, dwell in the
plain and make me wings. Ah, when once Popocatepetl can soar on his
wings from star to star, then, indeed--"
* * * * *
Poor old stupid Popocatepetl! The little animal summoned his kind, they
dwelt on the plains, they made this and they made that, but they made no
wings for Popocatepetl.
And sometimes when the thunderous voice of the old peak rolls and rolls,
if you know that tongue, you can hear him say: "Oh, traitor! Traitor!
Traitor! Where are my wings? My wings, traitor! I am hungry! Where are
my wings?"
But the little animal merely places his finger beside his nose and
winks.
"Your wings, indeed, fool! Sit still and howl for them! Old idiot!"
WHY DID THE YOUNG CLERK SWEAR?
OR, THE UNSATISFACTORY FRENCH.
All was silent in the little gent's furnishing store. A lonely clerk
with a blonde moustache and a red necktie raised a languid hand to his
brow and brushed back a dangling lock. He yawned and gazed gloomily at
the blurred panes of the windows.
Without, the wind and rain came swirling round the brick buildings and
went sweeping over the streets. A horse-car rumbled stolidly by. In the
mud on the pavements, a few pedestrians struggled with excited
umbrellas.
"The deuce!" remarked the clerk. "I'd give ten dollars if somebody would
come in and buy something, if 'twere only cotton socks."
He waited amid the shadows of the grey afternoon. No customers came. He
heaved a long sigh and sat down on a high stool. From beneath a stack of
unlaundried shirts he drew a French novel with a picture on the cover.
He yawned again, glanced lazily toward the street, and settled himself
as comfortable as the gods would let him upon the high stool.
He opened the book and began to read. Soon it could have been noticed
that his blonde moustache took on a curl of enthusiasm, and the
refractory locks on his brow showed symptoms of soft agitation.
"Silvere did not see the young girl for some days," read the clerk. "He
was miserable. He seemed always to inhale that subtle perfume from her
hair. At night he saw her eyes in the stars.
"His dreams were troubled. He watched the house. Heloise did not appear.
One day he met Vibert. Vibert wore a black frock-coat. There were
wine-stains on the right breast. His collar was soiled. He had not
shaved.
"Silvere burst into tears. 'I love her! I love her! I shall die!' Vibert
laughed scornfully. His necktie was second-hand. Idiotic, this boy in
love. Fool! Simpleton! But at last he pitied him. She goes to the
music-teacher's every morning. Silly Silvere embraced him.
"The next day Silvere waited at the street corner. A vendor was selling
chestnuts. Two gamins were fighting in an alley. A woman was scrubbing
some steps. This great Paris throbbed with life.
"Heloise came. She did not perceive Silvere. She passed with a happy
smile on her face. She looked fresh, fair, innocent. Silvere felt
himself swooning. 'Ah, my God!'
"She crossed the street. The young man received a shock that sent the
warm blood to his brain. It had been raining. There was mud. With one
slender hand Heloise lifted her skirts. Silvere leaning forward, saw
her--"
A young man in a wet mackintosh came into the little gent's furnishing
store.
"Ah, beg pardon," said he to the clerk, "but do you have an agency for a
steam laundry here? I have been patronising a Chinaman down th' avenue
for some time, but he--what? No? You have none here? Well, why don't you
start one, anyhow? It'd be a good thing in this neighbourhood. I live
just round the corner, and it'd be a great thing for me. I know lots of
people who would--what? Oh, you don't? Oh!"
As the young man in the wet mackintosh retreated, the clerk with a
blonde moustache made a hungry grab at the novel. He continued to read:
"Handkerchief fall in a puddle. Silvere sprang forward. He picked up the
handkerchief. Their eyes met. As he returned the handkerchief, their
hands touched. The young girl smiled. Silvere was in ecstacies. 'Ah, my
God!'
"A baker opposite was quarrelling over two sous with an old woman.
"A grey-haired veteran with a medal upon his breast and a butcher's boy
were watching a dog-fight. The smell of dead animals came from adjacent
slaughter-houses. The letters on the sign over the tinsmith's shop on
the corner shone redly like great clots of blood. It was hell on roller
skates."
Here the clerk skipped some seventeen chapters descriptive of a number
of intricate money transactions, the moles on the neck of a Parisian
dressmaker, the process of making brandy, the milk-leg of Silvere's
aunt, life in the coal-pits, and scenes in the Chamber of Deputies. In
these chapters the reputation of the architect of Charlemagne's palace
was vindicated, and it was explained why Heloise's grandmother didn't
keep her stockings pulled up.
Then he proceeded: "Heloise went to the country. The next day Silvere
followed. They met in the fields. The young girl had donned the garb of
the peasants. She blushed. She looked fresh, fair, innocent. Silvere
felt faint with rapture. 'Ah, my God!'
"She had been running. Out of breath, she sank down in the hay. She held
out her hand. 'I am so glad to see you.' Silvere was enchanted at this
vision. He bended toward her. Suddenly he burst into tears. 'I love you!
I love you! I love you!' he stammered.
"A row of red and white shirts hung on a line some distance away. The
third shirt from the left had a button off the neck. A cat on the rear
steps of a cottage near the shirt was drinking milk from a platter. The
north-east portion of the platter had a crack in it.
"'Heloise!' Silvere was murmuring hoarsely. He leaned toward her until
his warm breath moved the curls on her neck. 'Heloise!' murmured Jean."
"Young man," said an elderly gentleman with a dripping umbrella to the
clerk with a blonde moustache, "have you any night-shirts open front and
back? Eh? Night-shirts open front and back, I said. D'you hear, eh?
_Night-shirts open front and back._ Well, then, why didn't you say so?
It would pay you to be a trifle more polite, young man. When you get as
old as I am, you will find out that it pays to--what? I didn't see you
adding any column of figures. In that case I am sorry. You have no
night-shirts open front and back, eh? Well, good-day."
As the elderly gentleman vanished, the clerk with a blonde moustache
grasped the novel like some famished animal. He read on: "A peasant
stood before the two children. He wrung his hands. 'Have you seen a
stray cow?' 'No,' cried the children in the same breath. The peasant
wept. He wrung his hands. It was a supreme moment.
"'She loves me!' cried Silvere to himself, as he changed his clothes for
dinner.
"It was evening. The children sat by the fire-place. Heloise wore a
gown of clinging white. She looked fresh, fair, innocent. Silvere was in
raptures. 'Ah, my God!'
"Old Jean, the peasant, saw nothing. He was mending harness. The fire
crackled in the fire-place. The children loved each other. Through the
open door to the kitchen came the sound of old Marie shrilly cursing the
geese who wished to enter. In front of the window two pigs were
quarrelling over a vegetable. Cattle were lowing in a distant field. A
hay-waggon creaked slowly past. Thirty-two chickens were asleep in the
branches of a tree. This subtle atmosphere had a mighty effect upon
Heloise. It was beating down her self-control. She felt herself going.
She was choking.
"The young girl made an effort. She stood up. 'Good-night, I must go.'
Silvere took her hand. 'Heloise,' he murmured. Outside the two pigs were
fighting.
"A warm blush overspread the young girl's face. She turned wet eyes
toward her lover. She looked fresh, fair, innocent. Silvere was
maddened. 'Ah, my God!'
"Suddenly the young girl began to tremble. She tried vainly to withdraw
her hand. But her knee--"
"I wish to get my husband some shirts," said a shopping-woman with six
bundles. The clerk with a blonde moustache made a private gesture of
despair, and rapidly spread a score of different-patterned shirts upon
the counter. "He's very particular about his shirts," said the
shopping-woman. "Oh, I don't think any of these will do. Don't you keep
the Invincible brand? He only wears that kind. He says they fit him
better. And he's very particular about his shirts. What? You don't keep
them? No? Well, how much do you think they would come at?" "Haven't the
slightest idea." "Well, I suppose I must go somewhere else, then. Um,
good-day."
The clerk with the blonde moustache was about to make further private
gestures of despair, when the shopping-woman with six bundles turned and
went out. His fingers instantly closed nervously over the book. He drew
it from its hiding-place, and opened it at the place where he had
ceased. His hungry eyes seemed to eat the words upon the page. He
continued: "--struck cruelly against a chair. It seemed to awaken her.
She started. She burst from the young man's arms. Outside the two pigs
were grunting amiably.
"Silvere took his candle. He went toward his room. He was in despair.
'Ah, my God!'
"He met the young girl on the stairs. He took her hand. Tears were
raining down his face. 'Heloise!' he murmured.
"The young girl shivered. As Silvere put his arms about her, she
faintly resisted. This embrace seemed to sap her life. She wished to
die. Her thoughts flew back to the old well and the broken hayrakes at
Plassans.
"The young girl looked fresh, fair, innocent 'Heloise!' murmured
Silvere. The children exchanged a long, clinging kiss. It seemed to
unite their souls.
"The young girl was swooning. Her head sank on the young man's shoulder.
There was nothing in space except these warm kisses on her neck. Silvere
enfolded her. 'Ah, my God!'"
"Say, young fellow," said a youth with a tilted cigar to the clerk with
a blonde moustache, "where th'll is Billie Carcart's joint round here?
Know?"
"Next corner," said the clerk fiercely.
"Oh, th'll," said the youth, "yehs needn't git gay. See! When a feller
asts a civil question yehs needn't git gay. See! Th'll!"
The youth stood and looked aggressive for a moment. Then he went away.
The clerk seemed almost to leap upon the book. His feverish fingers
twirled the pages. When he found his place he glued his eyes to it. He
read:
"Then a great flash of lightning illumined the hall-way. It threw livid
hues over a row of flowerpots in the window-seat. Thunder shook the
house to its foundation. From the kitchen arose the voice of old Marie
in prayer.
"Heloise screamed. She wrenched herself from the young man's arms. She
sprang inside her room. She locked the door. She flung herself face
downward on the bed. She burst into tears. She looked fresh, fair,
innocent.
"The rain pattering upon the thatched roof sounded in the stillness like
the footsteps of spirits. In the sky toward Paris there shone a crimson
light.
"The chickens had all fallen from the tree. They stood, sadly, in a
puddle. The two pigs were asleep under the porch.
"Upstairs, in the hall-way, Silvers was furious."
The clerk with a blonde moustache gave here a wild scream of
disappointment. He madly hurled the novel with the picture on the cover
from him. He stood up and said: "Damn!"
THE VICTORY OF THE MOON.
The Strong Man of the Hills lost his wife. Immediately he went abroad,
calling aloud. The people all crouched afar in the dark of their huts,
and cried to him when he was yet a long distance away: "No, no, great
chief, we have not even seen the imprint of your wife's sandal in the
sand. If we had seen it, you would have found us bowed down in worship
before the marks of her ten glorious brown toes, for we are but poor
devils of Indians, and the grandeur of the sun rays on her hair would
have turned our eyes to dust."
"Her toes are not brown. They are pink," said the Strong Man from the
Hills. "Therefore do I believe that you speak the truth when you say you
have not seen her, good little men of the valley. In this matter of her
great loveliness, however, you speak a little too strongly. As she is no
longer among my possessions, I have no mind to hear her praised.
Whereabouts is the best man of you?"
None of them had stomach for this honour at the time. They surmised that
the Strong Man of the Hills had some plan for combat, and they knew
that the best of them would have in this encounter only the strength of
the meat in the grip of the fire. "Great King," they said, in one voice,
"there is no best man here."
"How is this?" roared the Strong Man. "There must be one who excels. It
is a law. Let him step forward then."
But they solemnly shook their heads. "There is no best man here."
The Strong Man turned upon them so furiously that many fell to the
ground. "There must be one. Let him step forward." Shivering, they
huddled together and tried, in their fear, to thrust each other toward
the Strong Man.
At this time a young philosopher approached the throng slowly. The
philosophers of that age were all young men in the full heat of life.
The old greybeards were, for the most part, very stupid, and were so
accounted.
"Strong Man from the Hills," said the young philosopher, "go to yonder
brook and bathe. Then come and eat of this fruit. Then gaze for a time
at the blue sky and the green earth. Afterward I have something to say
to you."
"You are not so wise that I am obliged to bathe before listening to
you?" demanded the Strong Man, insolently.
"No," said the young philosopher. All the people thought this reply very
strange.
"Why, then, must I bathe and eat of fruit and gaze at the earth and the
sky?"
"Because they are pleasant things to do."
"Have I, do you think, any thirst at this time for pleasant things?"
"Bathe, eat, gaze," said the young philosopher with a gesture.
The Strong Man did, indeed, whirl his bronzed and terrible limbs in the
silver water. Then he lay in the shadow of a tree and ate the cool fruit
and gazed at the sky and the earth. "This is a fine comfort," he said.
After a time he suddenly struck his forehead with his finger. "By the
way, did I tell you that my wife had fled from me?"
"I know it," said the young philosopher.
Later the Strong Man slept peacefully. The young philosopher smiled.
But in the night the little men of the valley came clamouring: "Oh,
Strong Man of the Hills, the moon derides you!"
The philosopher went to them in the darkness. "Be still, little people.
It is nothing. The derision of the moon is nothing."
But the little men of the valley would not cease their uproar. "Oh,
Strong Man! Strong Man, awake! Awake! The moon derides you!"
Then the Strong Man aroused and shook his locks away from his eyes.
"What is it, good little men of the valley?"
"Oh, Strong Man, the moon derides you! Oh, Strong Man!"
The Strong Man looked, and there, indeed, was the moon laughing down at
him. He sprang to his feet and roared. "Ah, old, fat, lump of moon, you
laugh! Have you seen my wife?"
The moon said no word, but merely smiled in a way that was like a flash
of silver bars.
"Well, then, moon, take this home to her," thundered the Strong Man, and
he hurled his spear.
The moon clapped both hands to its eye, and cried: "Oh! Oh!"
The little people of the valley cried: "Oh, this is terrible, Strong
Man! He has smitten our sacred moon in the eye!"
The young philosopher cried nothing at all.
The Strong Man threw his coat of crimson feathers upon the ground. He
took his knife and felt its edge. "Look you, philosopher," he said. "I
have lost my wife, and the bath, the meal of fruit in the shade, the
sight of sky and earth are still good to me, but when this false moon
derides me, there must be a killing."
"I understand you," said the young philosopher.
The Strong Man ran off into the night. The little men of the valley
clapped their hands in ecstacy and terror. "Ah! ah! what a battle will
there be!"
The Strong Man went into his own hills and gathered there many great
rocks and trunks of trees. It was strange to see him erect upon a peak
of the mountains and hurling these things at the moon. He kept the air
full of them.
"Fat moon, come closer," he shouted. "Come closer, and let it be my
knife against your knife. Oh, to think that we are obliged to tolerate
such an old, fat, stupid, lazy, good-for-nothing moon. You are ugly as
death, while I--Oh, moon, you stole my beloved, and it was nothing, but
when you stole my beloved and laughed at me, it became another matter.
And yet you are so ugly, so fat, so stupid, so lazy, so
good-for-nothing. Ah, I shall go mad! Come closer, moon, and let me
examine your round, grey skull with this club."
And he always kept the air full of great missiles.
The moon merely laughed, and said: "Why should I come closer?"
Wildly did the Strong Man pile rock upon rock. He builded him a tower
that was the father of all towers. It made the mountains to appear to be
babes. Upon the summit of it he swung his great club and flourished his
knife.
The little men in the valley far below beheld a great storm, and at the
end of it they said: "Look, the moon is dead." The cry went to and fro
on the earth: "The moon is dead!"
The Strong Man went to the home of the moon. She, the sought one, lay
upon a cloud, and her little foot dangled over the side of it. The
Strong Man took this little foot in his two hands and kissed it. "Ah,
beloved!" he moaned, "I would rather this little foot was upon my dead
neck than that moon should ever have the privilege of seeing it."
She leaned over the edge of the cloud and gazed at him. "How dusty you
are. Why do you puff so? Veritably, you are an ordinary person. Why did
I ever find you interesting?"
The Strong Man flung his knife into the air and turned back toward the
earth. "If the young philosopher had been at my elbow," he reflected,
bitterly, "I would doubtless have gone at the matter in another way.
What does my strength avail me in this contest?"
The battered moon, limping homeward, replied to the Strong Man from the
Hills: "Aye, surely. My weakness is in this thing as strong as your
strength. I am victor with ugliness, my age, my stoutness, my laziness,
my good-for-nothingness. Woman is woman. Men are equal in everything
save good fortune. I envy you not."
THE END.
Printed by WM. HODGE & CO., Glasgow and Edinburgh.
* * * * *
Typographical errors corrected by the transcriber of etext:
flowerplots=>flowerpots, coming tower=>conning tower, troup=>troupe